


On A White Horse

by ValyrianSteel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chivalry, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, More tags to be added, Politics with a Capital P, Slow Burn, Tourney AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValyrianSteel/pseuds/ValyrianSteel
Summary: After Tyrion is sent to the Wall following his trial for regicide, Jaime Lannister is forced to keep his end of the deal he struck with his father to save Tyrion’s life. He is released from his Kingsguard vows and rides out of the capital with every intention of taking up his seat as Lord of Casterly Rock. But along the way, Jaime hears word of a tourney being held in the Vale for the hand of Littlefinger’s bastard daughter - a girl who bears a suspicious similarity to the missing Sansa Stark. Resolving to discover the truth of the matter, Jaime makes his way to the Vale instead with one goal in mind: find Sansa Stark and bring her home.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 36
Kudos: 131





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello All! Welcome to this new fic! A couple of things up top: for the purposes of this story, this is an AU where Jaime never lost his hand. It also diverges from canon around Season 4 of the show/during A Feast for Crows in the book timeline. This story will blend elements of both the show and books, but I'll be leaning much more toward the books in general in terms of overall plot, descriptions of people and places, etc. 
> 
> But enough about all that. On with the story!

The sun was going down in the West, casting the countryside in a warm, golden glow. It filtered through the trees and straight into Jaime’s eyes as he guided his horse around a rock in the dirt path before him. Had he not spent the last week in a saddle, he might have appreciated the irony: a golden sunset over the Goldroad, reflecting off his own gilded armor to blind him. As it was, he merely raised a hand to shield his eyes and spurred his horse on. 

“We’ll need to set camp soon, my lord,” Ser Addam Marbrand said from his side. Jaime sighed. Another night sleeping rough on the hard forest floor didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. Peering between his fingers, Jaime caught sight of a column of smoke rising far off through the trees. 

“How far to the nearest town?” he asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the smoke. 

Ser Addam raised his own hand and peered through the trees. “A few hours perhaps, if we hurry.”

Jaime tossed a grin over his shoulder at his friend, his hand falling back to the reins. “Let’s hurry, then,” he said and spurred his horse into a gallop, leaving Ser Addam to kick his own mount forward with a muttered oath as he tried to catch up. 

It was near full dark by the time Jaime and his small company rode into the town which, upon closer inspection, appeared to be little more than a handful of crumbling thatch-roofed houses with one larger building at its edge, which was indeed an Inn, albeit a small one. Jaime slid off his horse with a sigh of relief and tossed a copper to the scrawny stable boy that emerged to take the reins from him, leaving Ser Addam to sort through the particulars of stabling their horses while he inquired about rooms. 

Inside, the Inn was bustling with far more activity than Jaime expected for such a sleepy little town. He paused in the doorway as his gaze swept across the crowded main room. Patrons were seated at every trestle table in the dimly lit room save one which only boasted a single occupant, a well built man clad in a plain silver breastplate over an olive green quilted tunic. His face was weathered with age, his hair and beard shot through with white, though apart from the deep furrows around his eyes and cheeks, he appeared every bit as strong as any other knight. 

Jaime stepped forward and took a seat at the opposite end of the table, his cloak sweeping the floor behind him as he bent to sit. The man cast a glance across the table at him, then promptly froze, his grey eyes widening as they took in Jaime’s gilded armor and the blood red Lannister cloak that swept behind his shoulders.

“Beg pardon, milord,” he said, setting his tankard down and moving to stand. 

Jaime turned toward him and held out a hand. “There’s no need to leave, Ser,” he said, eyeing the metal armor he wore over his legs, plain steel that didn’t quite match his breastplate, and the fraying brown leather vambraces at his wrists. A hedge knight, surely, though he didn’t begrudge the man his station. 

“‘Tis no trouble, milord,” the man said, “I can sit at the bar.” 

Jaime sighed and swept a hand through his hair. “It’s quite alright,” he said. “I’ve no wish to evict you from your seat, man. Sit down.” 

Reluctantly, the man sat again, eyeing Jaime curiously as he turned to flag down the Innkeep. 

A stout, round-faced woman in a patched apron approached him with a tankard of ale in hand. Her eyes widened when she caught sight of the gold lions etched into his pauldrons. “I’ll have one of those,” Jaime said, nodding to the drink in her hand. “And one for each of my men when they arrive.” She nodded wordlessly, setting the drink down in front of him. “We’ll be needing rooms for the evening as well.” 

The woman swept a hand across her brow. “Begging your pardon, milord, but we’ve only one left,” she said nervously, one hand twisting into her skirts. 

“Only one?” Jaime asked, quirking a brow. 

The inkeep nodded. “Very sorry, Ser, but we’re full up tonight. What with all the men passing through for the tourney.” 

“Tourney?” he asked, confused. He’d been on the road for a week and heard nothing of a tourney. 

“The Tourney of the Vale, milord,” she said as though it were obvious. “Had you not heard?” 

Jaime shook his head absently. “I hadn’t.” He waited a beat for the woman to elaborate, but it seemed she had lost her tongue. “I’ll take the room,” he said when the silence stretched thin. “How many beds does it have?”

“Two, milord.” He nodded. It seemed he and Ser Addam would have to share the room, though at least neither of them would have to sleep on the floor. The rest of his men would need to sleep in the stables. Jaime ordered two roast capons and trenchers of fresh, hot bread for the table, then passed the innkeep a silver stag for her trouble. She dropped into a swift curtsey and hurried off to the kitchen, calling out to a serving girl as she went. 

Once she’d gone, Jaime’s gaze swept across the room once more, this time lingering longer on the other patrons. They were indeed all men, most armored in some fashion, some in mis-matched plate, others in thick, boiled leather. Most seemed little more than green boys, though one or two appeared to be older men like the man that sat on the other end of his table. 

“Are you on your way to the Tourney as well?” he asked the man, shifting closer to him so he wouldn’t have to shout over the din. The man paused, his eyes shifting to the door as Ser Addam and the rest of Jaime’s company filtered in, before replying. 

“Aye, milord,” he finally said. “Like the rest of this lot.” 

Jaime nodded. “And what exactly does the event entail?” he asked, his eyes drifting over the other patrons again. “I imagine there must be a fine prize on offer to have caught the interest of so many men. The Vale is no short distance from here.”

The old man grinned. “Oh aye, milord. The finest prize in all the realm. The hand of a fair maid.”

Jaime quirked a brow. “And what maid would that be?”

“Lord Baelish's bastard daughter,” the man replied. “Girl by the name of Alayne.” 

Jaime glanced at Ser Addam where he had taken a seat across from him, but his friend merely lifted a shoulder minutely in response. 

“She must be quite a beauty,” Jaime said, raising his tankard to his lips, “to have so many men vying for her hand.”

“Oh, aye,” the man agreed, “She’s as pretty as the maids of song, if the stories be true. Long silken hair and porcelain skin. Eyes bluer than the Sunset Sea. Tall as a reed too, or so they say. A good head taller than her own lord father.”

“She must get her height from her mother then,” Jaime said, glancing at Ser Addam meaningfully. “I forget, what color did you say her hair was?” 

The man scratched at his beard in thought. “She’s raven haired, I think. Or perhaps it’s brown. It’s dark at any rate,” he concluded with a shrug. 

_Dark_ , Jaime pondered. It wasn’t what he’d hoped to hear, but then, dark hair was easily achieved for one as well connected as Littlefinger. 

“And you mean to try for the girl’s hand yourself?” Jaime asked, the corner of his mouth turning up in amusement at the thought.

The hedge knight gave a hearty laugh. “Oh, I doubt the maid would want these old bones in bed beside her. No doubt she’ll be wanting someone young and fair. Or famous, eh?” he added, lifting his tankard to Jaime in mock salute. Jaime raised a brow at that. _I am not so old yet, am I?_

“Nay,” the old man continued, shaking his head, “‘Tis the champion’s purse for the melee that I’m after. 300 gold dragons are to go to the winner.”

“A tidy sum,” Jaime agreed, though he knew his own lord father would have offered at least double.

“Enough to change an old man’s lot,” the knight across from him nodded peering down into his ale thoughtfully. 

“I wish you good fortune then, Ser…” he trailed off with a raised brow. 

“Roland,” the man supplied, lifting his chin. “Ser Roland of Silvertree.”

“Ser Roland,” Jaime repeated, raising his own tankard in salute. “I’ve no doubt you know who I am,” he said with a smile. 

“Aye, milord,” Ser Roland said, “‘Tis not hard to guess.” Jaime chuckled at the frank retort but didn’t chide him.

The rest of the evening passed in idle conversation as the men ate their supper and finished their ale. Jaime tried to steer the conversation back to the girl Ser Roland had described a time or two but it seemed the old man knew little more than what he’d already said.

Eventually, Jaime excused himself to the room he’d rented for the night, nodding farewell to Ser Roland who by then was well into his cups. As he passed Ser Addam on his way to the stairs, he placed a hand on his pauldron, leaning down to speak close to his ear. 

“Find out what you can,” he whispered, meeting his friend’s eyes briefly before pulling away and continuing up the stairs.

An hour later, Jaime had paced the floor near the window so many times he feared he’d leave a track in the scuffed wood. He’d removed his armor and set it aside, but left his sword belt about his waist, his hand clenching the golden pommel of his sword reflexively as he paced.

Jaime sighed and paused to lean both hands on the window sill, his head tipping forward to press against the cool glass as his shoulders sagged. Below him, the wind was dancing in the trees, their silhouettes dark in the bright, clear light of the moon, but he didn’t see them. Instead he saw only the pale green of his father’s eyes, the furrow of his brow and the scowl upon his lips as he’d pronounced his fate. 

_You will remove your white cloak immediately. You will leave King’s Landing to assume your rightful place at Casterly Rock. You will marry a suitable woman and father children_ named _Lannister. And you will never turn your back on your family again._

He remembered every word keenly. It was the price he had paid in exchange for his brother’s life. A heavy cost, but one he’d paid gladly, even if he knew he was handing his father everything he’d ever wanted on a golden platter: to be rid of Tyrion and regain his eldest son and heir in one swift stroke. 

It was so perfect that Jaime couldn’t help but doubt that his father would actually keep his word; so much so that he’d refused to set aside his white cloak until Tyrion was safely out of the city, a stipulation his father had begrudgingly agreed to. Even then, he’d stood watch at the door to Tyrion’s cell for almost the entirety of the three days it had taken to organize his transport to the Wall, trusting only Ser Addam to relieve him for the brief snatches of time he’d allowed himself to eat and sleep. 

It was only later, as he’d stood in the courtyard of the Red Keep and watched the Gold Cloaks bundle his brother into the back of a wagon bound for the Wall, shackled hand and foot, that the reality of it all had come crashing down on him. He’d shoved one of the Gold Cloaks aside then and gathered his brother into his arms as he whispered his farewells, both of them struggling to hold back their tears as they looked on one another for the last time. Eventually he’d pulled away and allowed one of the Gold Cloaks to slam the gate at the back of the cart shut, then stood and watched as it rolled out of the Keep, the gate lowering behind it with a clang that lanced straight to Jaime’s heart. 

A mere hour later he’d walked into the Throne Room, clad in his Kingsguard white, and listened as King Tommen Baratheon, First of His Name, thanked him for his many years of service, in words he had no doubt his lord father had written, and released him from his sacred vows. A wave of murmurs had rolled through the crowd when Jaime had reached back and unclasped his white cloak, only to fall to a hush as he proceeded to strip off every piece of armor he wore, placing it all neatly at the foot of the Iron Throne. By the time the last piece had joined the pile, the room had grown silent as a crypt. 

Cersei had been livid of course, both that their father had allowed Tyrion to leave the city with his head still on his shoulders and that Jaime had been the one to facilitate it at the cost of leaving the Kingsguard to take up his place as Lord Tywin’s heir. She’d railed and cried and thrown things when he’d visited her chambers after his uncloaking ceremony, the betrayal in her emerald eyes almost more than he could bear. He’d wanted so badly to spend his last night in King’s Landing in her arms, but instead he’d spent the night alone in the small chambers he’d been granted after vacating the White Sword Tower watching the shadows dance on his ceiling as he struggled to find sleep. 

The next morning he’d ridden out of the Red Keep clad in Lannister red and gold with Ser Addam and a handful of men behind him. 

She hadn’t been there to see him off. 

_The things I do for love_ , he thought, but the words felt hollow now. 

A knock at the door roused Jaime from his thoughts. He turned just in time to see it open and a weary Ser Addam enter the room, his steps heavy. 

“And?” he asked without preamble. Addam merely turned his weary gaze to Jaime for a heartbeat before gesturing to the small table by the hearth and sitting heavily in one of the spindly wooden chairs beside it. With a sigh, Jaime crossed the room in two quick strides and took the other seat. 

“It seems the girl appeared at Littlefinger’s side only a few moons past.” Ser Addam said once Jaime was seated. “Before that, no one seems to have any knowledge of her.”

Jaime nodded, the pieces clicking together in his mind. _What are the odds?_

“You think it’s her?” Addam asked quietly. 

“I do,” Jaime replied, nodding solemnly. “Though I won’t know for certain until I see her.”

“ _See_ her?” Addam asked, his brows shooting up. “Jaime, you can’t possibly mean to turn us around. Your lord father expects-” 

“I _know_ what my lord father expects,” Jaime said. “And I intend to keep my word to him. But before I gave my word to my father, I swore an oath to that girl’s mother that I would find her and bring her home. And by all the gods, I mean to keep it.”

The vehemence in his words stunned them both into silence for a moment. Jaime turned his gaze down to the tabletop, tapping a finger against it impatiently. 

_Let me do this,_ he thought, desperately. _Let me do_ one _honorable thing._

_Let me save her._

Ser Addam sighed, scrubbing a hand over his beard in agitation. “You also swore to find her sister too, from what you’ve told me. Do you mean to scour the countryside in search of her as well?” 

Jaime cast a withering glance across the table. “Of course not,” he said. “I sent- an ally ahead of me to look for her. To look for them both, in truth, as I had no notion then of the eldest being in the Vale. I can only hope she’s made some progress in the moons since.” 

_A pity the wench isn’t with us now,_ Jaime thought. _She’d have had us on the road to the Vale before Ser Roland had even finished his tale._ If indeed, she had sense enough to see through whatever story Littlefinger had concocted of the girl’s origins. He could only hope that she did. 

Addam sighed and passed a hand through his coppery locks. “Your father won’t like this,” he said gravely, his lips pressing into a thin line. 

“Let _me_ worry about my father,” Jaime said, leaning across the table to lay a hand on his friend’s armored shoulder briefly before rising to stand. 

“Get some rest,” he said over his shoulder as he crossed back to his side of the room. “We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins. The idea for this AU hit me like a ton of bricks while I was working on my other fic (which I admit I've completely hit a wall with), so I decided to switch gears and write something new while the inspiration was there. I hope this first chapter doesn't feel too exposition heavy, but there's a fair amount of set up that's required before we get to the Vale and things get interesting. I'm really excited for this new fic and I hope you are too! 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I just want to say a quick thank you to everyone who left feedback on the last chapter. Your encouragement means the world! <3
> 
> Now on with the show!

Alayne had only just sat down to break her fast in the small solar in her chambers when a rapping sounded at her chamber door, sharp and insistent. Jolting out of her seat, Alayne crossed the room in three long strides and swung the door open to find one very exasperated Myranda Royce filling the doorframe. 

“ _There_ you are,” Randa said, pushing past her into the room where she promptly seated herself in the chair across from Alayne’s at the small table in the solar and began helping herself to the plate of fruits and cheese Alayne had been breaking her fast upon. Randa cast a glance over her shoulder when Alayne didn’t move from the doorway. “Well,” she asked, “are you going to hover there all day?” Alayne shook her head absently, then closed the chamber door and settled back into her seat across from Randa. 

“What’s wrong?” Alayne asked, as she sat. “Has my father been calling for me? Or Sweetrobin?”

Randa flapped a hand. “No, no, nothing so droll as that. I simply thought I’d pay you a visit since the first rays of the sun are slanting through the windows and you aren’t already bustling about the castle like you usually are at this time of day. I came to see if you weren’t feeling sickly.” Randa made a show of leaning across the table and laying her hand across Alayne’s forehead, her features screwing up as though she were deep in thought. 

Alayne batted her hand away with a smile. 

Randa narrowed her eyes. “You’re not winesick are you? Or recovering from any… nocturnal activities?” she asked, waggling her brows shamelessly. 

“Randa!” Alayne exclaimed. “ _No!_ ”

“Oh, Alayne,” Randa sighed, shaking her head. “The least you could do is lie to me.”

“ _Lie_ to you?” Alayne repeated, incredulous. “Why should you want me to lie?”

“Because,” Randa said with a roll of her eyes, “it would be _far_ more interesting than the truth. Besides,” she continued, popping a grape into her mouth. “I’d have no real way of knowing if it was a lie anyway, since you had the _gall_ to bar your door last night and deprive me of my pillow partner.” 

Alayne rolled her eyes. “I barred the door last night to keep Sweetrobin out,” she said, her voice hushed, “not for any... _other_ reasons.” Alayne felt a blush flame her cheeks at the thought. 

Randa chewed her grape and narrowed her eyes. “Noo,” she said ponderously after a moment. “From the scandalized look on your face right now, I don’t suppose you get up to much at night, do you? Though for the life of me, I can’t understand why. What’s the point of being a bastard if you aren’t going to enjoy it?” 

She punctuated the statement by chasing the grape with a morsel of cheese, lifting a brow at Alayne expectantly.

“Seriously, Alayne,” she said, when no answer came. “This castle is _full_ of knights who’ve travelled from all corners of the realm for a chance to win your hand.”

Alayne scoffed. “All corners of the _Vale_ you mean,” she said, shooting her friend a look. “Don’t exaggerate.”

Randa rolled her eyes. “There are a fair few from other parts too, and more trickle in every day. My point is, you need only pick one, whichever one you think has the best chance at winning, and give him a little… _incentive._ ”

Alayne shook her head. “I told you,” she said, exasperated. “I’m to remain a maid until my wedding night.”

Randa scoffed. “And who decided that? You or your lord father?” Alayne held her breath, but it appeared Randa didn’t expect an answer to that. “Honestly,” she muttered, leaning back in her seat, “you’d think a whoremonger would be more understanding of these things.”

A gasp escaped Alayne’s lips before she could stop it. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Randa said with false contrition. “A _proprietor of prostitutes_ ,” she said with a grand wave of her hand. “Is that better?”

Alayne shook her head again. “Those rumors are filthy lies and you know it!” she exclaimed, making sure to widen her eyes just so as she clutched a hand to her chest in offense. 

Randa shot her a sidelong glance, her sharp brown eyes measuring her for a moment but Alayne didn’t flinch. “Of course they are, sweetling,” she finally soothed, giving Alayne’s hand a pat for good measure. Alayne merely turned her gaze down to her plate and began nibbling at the fruit she had gathered there.

“Well,” Randa continued breezily when the silence began to stretch thin, “if you’ve time enough to break your fast here in your chambers instead of down in the Great Hall with the others, might I surmise that you don’t have any pressing duties to attend to this morning?”

Alayne shook her head absently. “Not as of yet,” she said. “Though my father’s expecting me in his solar in an hour or two.”

“Excellent!” Randa exclaimed, grasping Alayne’s hand in her own and pulling them both to stand. “Then you’ve time enough to watch the knights tilt in the yard with me.”

“ _Again?_ ” Alayne asked, wryly, though she allowed Randa to lace her arms around her elbow and pull her towards the door. Randa leaned into Alayne’s side as they made their way down the corridor beyond, speaking animatedly about the knights she’d spied already tilting at the quaintains. The gesture reminded Alyane of another girl, a lifetime ago, and the promises she had made her. 

_We shall be sisters, you and I. Would you like that?_

Oh, how badly she had wanted that to be true. 

And oh, what a fool she had been to ever believe that it could be. 

The distant sound of wood shattering into splinters roused Alayne from her reverie. She found herself standing on a covered balcony above the inner courtyard where the quintains had been erected for the knights to practice tilting. Further down, she could see the viewing stands that had been built for the tourney and the servants that were draping them with brightly colored banners. 

Glancing down, Alayne caught sight of the knight who had broken his lance, setting the quintain spinning behind him. As he brought his horse about, the knight lifted his visor and turned his gaze up to meet Alayne’s. Her heart pounded in her chest as he touched two fingers to his brow in salute, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he smiled, before lowering his visor and turning about for another pass. 

“Secret admirer?” asked Randa, who had watched the exchange with a raised brow. 

Alayne flushed. “I have no idea who he is,” she confessed. A Belmore perhaps? Or a Tollett? He’d seemed handsome enough from what she’d seen of him, his eyes a rather brilliant shade of blue as he’d caught her gaze. 

But he wasn’t Harry. 

It seemed almost cruel to allow so many to compete when she already knew exactly who would win. She’d said as much to her father when he’d first brought his idea of hosting a tourney to her, but Lord Baelish had merely shaken his head. 

“Our dear Harry must feel as though he has true competition,” he’d said. “Elsewise, it’ll sour the victory if the only competitors are old men and green boys.” 

Alayne had shaken her head at that. “He’s little more than a green boy himself, by all accounts. What makes you so certain he’ll win? Or that he’ll even wish to complete?”

“Oh, he’ll compete,” he’d said, his grey-green eyes sparkling. “Of that I’m certain. The lad has only just just been knighted and will be keen to prove himself on a grand stage. And what grander stage than the greatest tourney the Vale has seen in decades? Besides,” he continued, leaning further back in his seat, “he’s always felt as though Lady Waynwood is holding him back. Out of jealousy of his position perhaps or whatever other reason the boy has deluded himself into believing. The point is, Lady Waynwood knows the lad mistrusts her and so she will allow him to compete, against her better judgement, as a show of good faith.”

Alayne had lifted a brow at that. “And how exactly do you know that?”

Littlefinger had smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up in a wry grin. “The same way I know everything,” he’d said smoothly. “A little bird told me.”

Alayne had watched him curiously for a moment, but his grey-green eyes never lost their mirth. 

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” Alayne had told him, turning away to pace the length of her father’s solar as she spoke. “Can you not send a proposal to Harry directly, or to Lady Waynwood if you must, on Harry’s behalf, and see if he’ll agree to a match?”

Lord Baelish shook his head. “That would be far too direct,” he’d said. “Harry must not suspect that we have any designs on him. Besides,” he’d said, rising from his seat and clasping her hands in his to halt her pacing. “He once turned down the trueborn daughter of House Royce. How much easier would it be to turn down the bastard daughter of an upjumped peasant?” 

Alayne had gasped at his bluntness, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as she’d grasped for a reply. “You’re the Lord Protector of the Vale,” she’d said finally, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. 

“Yes, sweetling,” Petyr had said, brushing a lock of her long, dark hair behind her ear tenderly. “But you’re still a bastard.”

Alayne had pulled her hand back at that, and turned away from him. 

_I wasn’t always,_ she thought. _Once I was trueborn and noble. Harry would’ve been lucky to make so fine a match as me._

But she wasn’t that girl anymore. 

“I know it’s difficult to hear, sweetling,” her father had said, one arm wrapping around her waist to pull her back flush against his chest as he whispered in her ear. “But he will never marry you unless he finds you desirable. And this tournament will make you the most desirable woman in all the realm.” The fingers of his free hand traced from her shoulder to her elbow absently, luxuriating in the feel of the silk upon her skin. Alayne fought hard not to shudder at the touch. 

“Even if he wins,” she had whispered, her eyes squeezed shut, “no marriage between us would ever be valid. Not while my- not while _he_ lives.” 

Lord Baelish had dropped his arm from around her waist and stepped back abruptly, Alayne’s eyes flying open as he did. “Well,” he’d said as he’d made his way calmly behind his desk. “As to that obstacle, I do have some news.” Lord Baelish opened a locked drawer in his desk and handed her the contents found within. 

It was a single scroll, rolled tight and bearing the sigil of the Hand of the King in blood red wax. With trembling hands, Alayne unrolled the parchment and read its contents, her eyes widening at each new line. When she was finished, she turned her wide blue gaze up to her father who stood watching with a smirk upon his lips.

“Lord Tyrion has been sent to the Wall?” she’d asked in a hushed voice, hardly believing the words as they left her lips. 

“He has,” her father had confirmed. “And before he was sent off, he was made to renounce all of his titles and claims. Including his marriage to Sansa Stark.”

She’d nearly flinched at the sound of the name, dropped so casually from Littlefinger’s lips. “That means I-”

“Yes, sweetling,” Lord Baelish had said. “You’re free now. And nothing in the world can stop you from marrying our good Ser Harry.” He’d reached across the desk and calmly plucked the parchment from between Alayne’s fingers, dropping it back into the drawer in front of him and closing it with a snap. “ _After_ he wins the tournament.”

Alayne closed her eyes and leaned her hands on the railing in front of her. That had been a fortnight ago and in the short time that passed since the announcement of the tourney, knights had begun arriving at the Gates of the Moon in scores. A handful had been invited by the Lord Protector himself, though most had simply shown up at the Gates with whatever equipment they could muster to try their luck. 

And while she knew that only the joust was stacked in Harry’s favor, she couldn’t help but feel guilty every time another starry eyed young knight turned up at the Gates, looking for glory he would most likely never find. 

_This whole thing is a lie_ , she thought. _Just like me._

“My lady!” a voice suddenly called sharply and Alayne snapped her eyes open, turning to find Mya Stone dressed in riding leathers and vaulting the steps up to the gallery two at a time, her brow beaded with sweat. “My lady,” she said again upon catching sight of Randa at her side, nodding quickly to both of them. “Where is your father?” she asked Alyane, her voice a little breathless. 

“In his solar I imagine,” Alyane said, her brows drawing together. “Why?”

“Banners have been spotted on the road, my lady. An hour or so away.”

“House Waynwood?” Randa asked immediately and Alayne couldn’t help but note the eager tone in her voice as she did. 

Mya shook her head. “No,” she said gravely, her blue eyes wide. “House Lannister.”

For a heartbeat, Alayne could neither move nor speak.

 _Lannister,_ she thought frantically. 

_They know who I am. They know I’m here._

_They’ve come for me._

“Thank you, Mya,” she said in a voice that sounded very far away. “I shall tell my father.” 

Without another word, she turned on her heel and made her way back up the corridor behind her. When she was far enough away, she gathered up her skirts and hurried up the stairs at the end of the corridor, then all but ran across the covered bridge that led to the Lord Protector’s apartments, her heart pounding in her chest all the while. 

She forced herself to slow to a stop outside the door to her father’s solar leaning one hand against the wall beside the door as she closed her eyes and fought to catch her breath. When she’d composed herself as best she could, Alayne knocked on the door, then pulled it open and stepped into the room without waiting for a reply. 

Inside, she found her father and Lord Nestor Royce with their heads bent over a map of the tourney grounds, Lord Nestor expounding on which areas of the yard would be used for each event as her father nodded along approvingly. At the sound of her entry, both men turned toward the door and Alayne promptly dropped into a deep curtsy. 

“Lord Royce,” she said once she’d regained her feet. “Forgive the intrusion, but might I speak with my father in private?” 

Lord Royce raised a bushy brow at that, but nodded. Alayne turned to gaze unseeingly out the window as Lord Royce took his leave, listening with half an ear for the door to close behind him. As soon as it did, she whirled around, her eyes wide as she stepped toward her father. 

“Alayne, sweetling,” Lord Baelish said, “You look pale as a ghost! Whatever is the matter?”

“Mya came and found me in the yard,” she said. “They’ve spotted banners down the road not far from here. _Lannister_ banners.”

“Lannister?” Lord Baelish repeated, the surprise in his voice sounding almost genuine. “Interesting,” he pondered, one hand stroking the point of his beard absently. 

“Did you know about this?” Alayne demanded in a hushed voice. 

“Surprisingly, no,” he said. “Though I can guess who it might be.”

“Who?” she asked, though she dreaded the answer. 

“The Kingslayer, I imagine,” he said, as though it were a forgone conclusion. 

“The _Kingslayer_?” Alayne repeated, disbelief coloring the word. 

Lord Baelish lifted one elegant shoulder in a half shrug. “Who else?” he asked, rhetorically. “It’s certainly not Lord Tyrion. And I doubt Lord Tywin would travel so far from the capital unannounced, nor the Queen for that matter.”

At the mention of the Queen, Alayne paled. “She sent him here, didn’t she?” she asked, her voice low. “She sent him here to bring me back to her. She means to put me on trial as she did my lord husband. Only I will have no one to speak for me and she’ll be free to execute me as she wishes.” 

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Lord Baelish said calmly. “The Queen has her hands full attending to other matters in the city. Or she will soon enough,” he added, almost under his breath. He smiled brightly, continuing on before she could open her mouth to question him. “Trust me, sweetling,” he said, laying a hand upon her shoulder, “finding you is the last thing on her mind.”

“Then why is he here?” she asked. 

Littlefinger shrugged. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “I suppose we’ll have to ask him.” He stepped closer and laid a hand on the small of her back, turning her to face the door. “Come now,” he said. “We must go and greet our guest.”

Alayne’s eyes went wide at the thought. “I can’t,” she whispered, her feet rooted to the spot, resisting the subtle push of the hand at her back. 

“Why not?” her father asked quietly. 

“Because,” she whispered, “I’m afraid.” She squeezed her eyes shut at the admission, at how weak it sounded to her own ears. 

“Why should you be afraid?” her father asked, tilting her chin up with one finger so she was forced to open her eyes again and look at him. “Alayne has never met the Kingslayer, nor any other Lannister. Alayne has nothing to fear.”

 _Alayne may have nothing to fear,_ she thought, _but_ I _do._

“I’ve told you before, sweetling,” her father said. “You must _always_ be Alayne.”

She forced her lips to turn up in a watery smile and pushed back the tears that threatened to gather at the corners of her eyes. “Of course, Father,” she said. “Who else would I be?”

A half hour later, she found herself standing just inside the castle gates, flanked by her father on one side and Lady Myranda on the other. Randa was practically trembling with excitement, though she had the good grace to keep quiet for the time being as the Kingslayer’s party was due through the gates at any moment. On her other side, Lord Baelish stood calmly, his hands clasped loosely at his waist as he conversed quietly with Lord Royce on his other side. 

_I ought not to have dressed so finely,_ Alayne thought as she tugged at her sleeve nervously. Her dress was deep blue silk, the color of the sky at dusk, cut square at the neck and trimmed with small seed pearls. It was one of the few gowns that had belonged to Lady Lysa that she had been able to alter to fit her, albeit not perfectly. The square collar sat lower than she might have wished, and the fabric was far too fine for a woman of her station, but she knew the color brought out her eyes and so she’d chosen to wear it on the off chance that she might need to greet Ser Harry at the castle gates today. 

She never imagined she’d be greeting the Kingslayer instead. 

As if summoned by the thought, the clatter of steel and pounding of hooves began to echo down the pass, growing louder as the men approached, and before long the man himself rode through the gates sitting tall upon a white horse, clad in red and gold, the blood red cape about his shoulders billowing behind him in the wind. A half dozen armored men streamed in close behind him, all clad in Lannister red and gold armor and flying lion banners. 

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” a herald announced, as the men drew their horses to a halt. “Lord of Casterly Rock.”

 _The Kingslayer,_ she thought as her gaze fell squarely upon him. The light of the morning sun turned his hair to spun gold as he passed a tired hand through it absently. It was longer now than it had been in the capital and stubble now covered his cheeks and chin. But his eyes were the same piercing green as he swept the courtyard with his gaze, finding their neat line of lords easily among the small crowd that had gathered to witness his arrival. His emerald gaze swept quickly across Lord Royce and her father in turn, then swiftly met her own and lingered. He dismounted then, breaking her gaze, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. 

Yet her relief didn’t last long, as the Kingslayer turned and began to cross the courtyard towards them, stripping a pair of red leather gloves from his hands and tucking them into his sword belt as he did. Another knight followed close behind, the sun catching on his burnished copper locks as he walked and for a heartbeat she was reminded of her brothers.

The Kingslayer halted in front of Lord Royce who bowed stiffly. “Ser Jaime,” he greeted in a measured tone once he’d righted himself. “Welcome to the Gates of the Moon.” 

“Thank you, Lord Royce,” the Kingslayer returned with a tight smile. “May I introduce Ser Addam of House Marbrand,” he said, gesturing to the knight who stood behind him, who bowed in turn.

“Lord Baelish,” the Kingslayer acknowledged next, turning to her father with a nod. 

Littlefinger’s answering bow was excessively courtly. “My Lord of Lannister,” he said as he righted himself, one hand hovering over his heart. “It is good to see you looking well. Though I confess, I had not thought to see you again after leaving court. May I ask what brings you all the way to the Vale?”

The Kingslayer smiled again. “I heard tell of a great tourney to be held here and thought I’d take a look for myself.”

Littlefinger smiled in turn. “We must count ourselves lucky then, to have garnered the attention of so great a knight as yourself, Ser Jaime.”

The Kingslayer inclined his head politely, but made no reply, instead turning his gaze toward Alayne once more. “And this must be the maid I’ve heard so much about,” he said, never breaking her gaze. 

Littlefinger inclined his head, one hand wrapping around her elbow to push her subtly forward. “Indeed,” he said. “May I introduce my beloved daughter, Alayne.”

The Kingslayer stepped toward her then, his gaze flitting about her features earnestly as he caught one of her hands in his and lifted it to his lips. “My lady,” he said as he bowed over her hand, pressing his lips briefly to her skin. “I confess, I had not known what to expect upon my arrival here. But you are all that I had hoped for and more.”

The words set her heart to racing. _He knows,_ Alayne thought madly, but she merely smiled, turning her gaze down demurely. “You’re too kind, Ser Jaime,” she said, pulling her hand back gently and dipping a deep curtsey that allowed a curtain of her hair to fall across one side of her face. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” When she glanced back up, the Kingslayer was watching her with something earnest in his eyes, but it was gone before she could place it. 

Lord Royce stepped forward then, clearing his throat subtly. “You must be weary from your journey, Sers. If it please you, my daughter Myranda will show you to your rooms.”

Randa, who had been watching the exchange with rapt attention, stepped forward then, an easy smile blooming on her lips as she met the Kingslayer’s gaze. “As lady of the castle, it would be my pleasure to escort you to your rooms, Sers,” she said, casting only a cursory glance at Ser Addam over the Kingslayer’s shoulder. 

For a moment, it seemed the Kingslayer was about to protest, but instead he merely turned to Myranda with a tight smile and said, “Lead the way.” 

As she made her way toward the castle with the Kingslayer and Ser Addam in tow, Randa couldn’t help but shoot a triumphant grin over her shoulder at Alayne. 

_You wouldn’t smile so if you knew what he was,_ Alayne thought. 

_I must find a way to warn her._

She was startled from her thoughts by an arm wrapping around her shoulders. “You did well,” her father whispered in her ear, as he turned her to face him. She smiled tightly in response, but it didn’t meet her eyes. “Go back to your rooms now, Alayne,” he said quietly. “I shall find you later.” 

She didn’t need to be told twice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now that all of our major players have made it to the Vale, the real fun can begin :) For the most part I'm going to alternate POVs between Jaime and Sansa each chapter but there may be some chapters that are split between the two. Next chapter will be Jaime's POV and we'll get to see his reaction to meeting "Alayne."
> 
> As always thank you for reading and stay tuned!


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